


Ashes To Ashes

by Space_and_Thyme



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dog Tags, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Heartache, M/M, Mentions of Nightmares, Mild Language, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Spooning, Steve didn't go back in time, Steve isn't trying to be hurtful, This has no connection to my other post Endgame fix-it, This isn't really a fix-it, it was just something that occurred to me and I couldn't get it out of my head, it's just hard not to expect shit to go wrong again, it's resolved though, memorial jewelry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_and_Thyme/pseuds/Space_and_Thyme
Summary: Steve had been wearing it, in private, for five years. He’d bought it from a memorial website – something that had become all too common after the decimation.It was simple enough; a tiny silver cylinder that locked together – no thicker than a pencil. It had been engraved, and merely read ‘My Lucky Star’ running down it’s diminutive length.Bucky hated it. As far as he was concerned, it was morbid.





	Ashes To Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly? I haven't got much to say about this. It was a brief thought that flashed through my mind, so I wrote it out. It is 100% unrelated to my other post-Endgame fic (Brooklyn, 1954) so there's no tie-in, and no connection between plot of that fic and this one. I really just wrote this because it was niggling at me.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so if there's anything weird, that's on me. I will likely eventually notice it and fix it.

Steve had been wearing it, in private, for five years. He’d bought it from a memorial website – something that had become all too common after the Decimation. While he didn’t think Natasha, or the others would judge him, he knew better than to wear it while it could be visible. He knew better than to let Tony Stark see it around his neck, even if they had only seen each other very few times over those years.

It was simple enough; a tiny silver cylinder that locked together and no thicker than a pencil. It had been engraved, and merely read ‘_My Lucky Star_’ running down it’s diminutive length. He wore it at night – always – and the few times he could be sure that it would stay hidden beneath the collar of his shirt. It hung, always, between his pectorals and over his heart, mated and on the chain with Bucky’s battered World War Two dog tags. He wore it at night, when it could lie safely against his skin and bring him some small amount of comfort.

At least this time there had been a body (if the ash pile could be called that) left behind.

He wore it still, even after Thanos had been subverted – even after the return of all those that had been lost. He wore it, because after five years he could not bear to let it go – to let go of that piece of his grief. It was his constant companion.

Bucky hated it. He knew exactly what it was that hung by Steve’s heart in the quiet hours of the night. He knew what it was that Steve clutched in his palm with tightly closed eyes – like a man praying over a rosary – every time he felt desperate or cast adrift.

It was morbid, as far as Bucky Barnes was concerned.

It was just the two of them living in the Brooklyn brownstone. They’d bought it after the Return – they didn’t much know what else to name the moment when all those who had been lost came back. It was old, and desperately in need of an update, but it _felt_ like home. It felt familiar enough to both of them, allowing an easier existence.

They had moved in together, once again as they had as kids. But the routine didn’t fall into place; Steve tiptoed around him, as though the wrong move or word would shatter Bucky into a hundred million pieces. As much as Bucky loved Steve, he hated being treated with kid gloves – that wasn’t who they _were_, so why should it become who they _are_? Besides, he'd survived worse than living with his childhood friend.

He understood perfectly that, more than just his history of abuse and brainwashing, it was his sudden disappearance in that Wakandan jungle that had broken the other man. He understood that the five years which passed in no more than the blink of an eye for himself, for Steve had been incomprehensible. In the time that they had known each other, intentional and accidental cryostasis aside, those five years were the longest that Steve had ever been separated from Bucky. The longest they had been apart, especially where Steve could not follow. He’d been lost enough when he’d had to watch Bucky fall to his apparent death in ’44, but it had been nothing compared to watching him burn and disintegrate before his very eyes. The years spent (conscious at least) between Bucky’s fall, and the appearance of the Winter Soldier, had been only three. Followed by only two years of searching for Bucky, but at least Steve had known him to be alive. The years following the Decimation had been… brutal. Unkind, and without reprieve save for his one indulgence into mourning.

It was still hanging around Steve’s neck as he drank his morning coffee. It hung between his pectorals, and glimmered softly in the early, golden, morning light, when Bucky walked into the kitchen that morning.

Bucky sighed softly when he caught sight of it. He shook his head, turning to grab the coffee pot and pour himself a cup – he hadn’t slept well, even with Steve tucked safely in his arms and securely under his chin.

“Buck?” Steve murmured quietly – his tone fitted to the quiet of the early morning. “Are you alright?”

Bucky nodded, and his long dark hair, left unbound, simply bobbed along with the movement as he poured his coffee. “Yeah, Steve, I’m alright.” He turned around slowly, bringing the mug up to his lips.

Steve’s eyes quickly darted over the figure of his best friend, as he checked for what might be leading to Bucky not being his normal self that morning. He took in the well fitted but comfortable t-shirt and the worn jeans that Steve knew were as soft as flannel – he’d rubbed his cheek against them fresh from the dryer on more than one occasion after Bucky had finished the laundry. He’d been caught doing it too, and Bucky always laughed.

He didn’t _see_ anything amiss, though Bucky _had_ shaved off his beard entirely the night before, which left his skin looking velvet smooth if _slightly_ irritated. He tried again. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

Bucky shrugged non-committal as he drank his coffee in the slightly uneasy silence.

“Was it something I did?” Steve’s brows furrowed and Bucky watched the little wrinkle between them grow a little deeper. “Did I… was I too close? I’m sorry, I just thought –“ he tried, valiantly, to apologize for sleeping snuggled up with Bucky, as if they hadn’t spent nearly every night of their youth like that. As if they hadn’t slept in their shared Army tent the same way during their Howling Commandos days. As if they hadn’t slept like that every night that Steve came to visit him in Wakanda. As if they hadn’t been sleeping like that every night since the Return.

As if they weren’t husbands.

Bucky snorted slightly in derision. “No, pal. It ain’t like that.”

“Then why?” Steve met Bucky’s eyes, all but begging to know what it was that kept Bucky awake the night before and made him distant now. “Are the nightmares back? You know you can wake me up when –“

“No, pal. It ain’t the nightmares either – though those never _did_ actually go away. You know that, right? They’re just not as common – at least the horrible ones aren’t. I still get bad dreams nearly nightly. That ain’t it though, pal.”

Steve blinked for a moment, before he shook his head. “Then I don’t understand.”

Bucky sighed again, this time a soft but long exhale of resignation. He set his coffee cup down on the counter off to his side, before pushing off and walking to where his husband sat at the small kitchen table. Steve’s brows further furrowed as he watched Bucky’s approach.

His hand reached out, and before Steve could stop him, Bucky had taken a hold of the small urn necklace. Steve’s heart rate spiked, his pulse thundering in his chest as his eyes widened in horror. He could barely breathe, too afraid to move, as he slowly looked between Bucky’s calm face, and the necklace that meant so much to him, gripped in Bucky’s hand.

“This, Stevie.” He gave the chain a light tug, and Steve’s hand immediately came up to grip his wrist.

He didn’t try to drag Bucky’s hand off of his necklace, but he did hold onto him in an almost pleading fashion as he looked into Bucky’s silver eyes. “Buck… don’t-“

Bucky tugged again, to make his point. “Stevie, come on. This ain’t me, and you _know_ that. _I’m _right here with you.”

Steve swallowed tightly, his throat already trying to close with the swell of emotion. “It… it was how I kept you close, even when…” he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

He’d spent the better part of those five years being strong for everyone else, when all he’d wanted to do was shake and cry and scream to the heavens for giving him back the love of his life, and then ripping him away again almost immediately. He’d wanted nothing more than to simply be the man in mourning – the way everyone else got to be, but not him. Captain America had to be strong, had to help people move on and support them. Steve Rogers’ own heartache didn’t matter.

“_Sweetheart,_” Bucky intoned gently. “I _understand_ that. I _do_.”

“When I had nothing else, I still had this piece of you – like before… when I had nothing, I had you, Bucky…” Steve squeezed his husband’s wrist softly again. “I couldn’t bring myself to let you go… I had to keep you by my heart.”

“Steve…” Bucky’s own voice cracked as he fought with the heavy emotion. The tears were already in Steve’s eyes, and if Bucky didn’t fix this soon, he knew they would both end up crying. He didn’t want Steve to cry over him, not again. “Steve, I know why you did it, and I know why you wore it… but Baby, I’m _right here_.” He leaned down, gently knocking his forehead against his husband’s.

“I know, but I can’t… I can’t let it go, I-“

“Do you know why I hate it as much as I do, Steve? And, believe me, I hate this thing into the very pit of my stomach.” He tugged on the chain again, and Steve’s words faltered. “I hate it because _this is not me_. I’m right here with you, this is just ash and dust held in a piece of silver. It’s not _me_. I’m _right here_ with you, and I know you’re scared, pal. I know you’re scared you’re gonna wake up and I’m not gonna be in bed with you, and that the Return was just a dream, but Baby that’s not going to happen.” Bucky kissed the tip of Steve’s nose gently. “If you wake up and I ain't in bed with you, I _promise_ you that the farthest away that I am, is in the kitchen puttin’ the pot of coffee on.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, and Bucky watched as two large tears, glimmering like polished stones, slipped free of his dark lashes. “But what if you’re wrong… what if it _is_ a dream?” Steve opened his eyes, and Bucky instantly met with Steve’s wet, cerulean, irises. “What if I lose you _again_? What if this time there’s no saving you – I can’t-“

“Steven Grant _Barnes_,” Bucky chided softly as he lowered himself into a crouch until he was able to look up into Steve’s face. He still held the memorial necklace in his hand. “You have to _stop _living in fear that you’re going to lose me –“

“But-“

“No, Steven. I know, I _know_ you’re scared, because so far Sweetheart, our luck hasn’t been great. And I know you’re scared because you’ve already lost people near and dear to your heart – Peggy among them, but most importantly your Ma. I know you’re scared, and it’s alright to be scared… but you’re still actin’ like I ain’t right here with you.”

“No, I’m not –“ Steve turned defensive, not willing, or perhaps able, to admit that Bucky was correct.

“Yeah, ya are. Ya wanna know why I didn’t sleep well last night? 'cause ‘s’like every night, pal. I spoon you, keep you in my arms and tucked under my jaw the way ya always told me ya felt safest. ‘cept I hold ya, and ya don’t even put a hand on my arm as I do. Ya curl up into this fetal position, and squeeze this stupid urn,” he shook the ash-filled pendant in his hand. “And it’s like I don’t exist. Steven,” he urged softly. “I’m _alive_. What’s in this thing _isn’t_ me.”

Steve stared into his husband’s face – and finally saw the hurt in his slate-blue eyes. His heart sank when he saw the depth of it. Something broke inside of him – and he pushed Bucky’s hand off his necklace. Without missing a beat, he pulled the chain off over his head and threw it aside. The tiny urn and the dog tags clattered as they hit the floor and slid a distance. Bucky blinked in surprise and disbelief, turning his head to watch the necklace slid across the top of the floor. Steve’s hand came up. He laid his palm against the curve of Bucky’s jaw tenderly, and turned the man’s face back until he focused on Steve again.

“I don’t under-“ Bucky started, but was interrupted by Steve.

Steve smiled sadly. His eyes slid closed as he leaned down and brought his lips to Bucky’s. He kissed him softly and sweetly, as he settled his other hand on the other side of Bucky’s face, cradling his jaw tenderly in his hands. When pulled back he moved only far enough so that he could kiss Bucky’s forehead. “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, sorry. You’re right, I… I don’t know what I was thinking.” He tilted his head and started peppering his husband’s cheeks and over the bridge of his nose with kisses.

Bucky ducked back out of his grip. He leaned back as he remained crouching on the floor in front of his husband. “Steve-“

Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, and dragged him in against his chest; he practically crushed him to his breast as he hugged him. “I’m sorry Baby… god I’m sorry.”

Bucky exhaled slowly and wrapped his arms back around Steve’s waist. He hugged him just as fiercely.

“I love you…” Steve murmured into Bucky’s long, dark, hair, even as he affectionately rubbed his beard against his husband’s cheek.

Bucky sighed quietly as he leaned into the gentle affection. “I forgive you, Sweetheart.”

When they finally parted, and Bucky rose back to his feet, Steve got up from the chair. He walked to where the necklace was lying on the floor and picked it up. He paused, staring down at it for a long moment as he contemplated his next move. After a moment, he huffed, and turned, walking towards the kitchen garbage.

“Wait,” Bucky reached out and squeezed his bicep gently, forcing Steve to look up at him. “You can keep the dog tags, Sweetheart. I know you’ve been wearin’ 'em since I fell.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged and he smiled sadly. “Thank you…”

“I’m not _so_ cruel as to ask you to throw it all away… you don’t really think I am, do ya?” Bucky squeezed his bicep again.

“No… but you’d have every right to…”

Bucky shook his head gently and took the chain out of Steve’s hands again. He popped open the connector on the steel beaded chain of the dog tags. He slid the small silver urn cylinder off it before he closed the connector again. Bucky lifted the chain and gently brought it back down over Steve’s head, draping it around his neck so that the battered old dog tags bearing his name hung by Steve’s heart. Slipping his hand under them, he brought the stamped stainless-steel disks up in his palm as he leaned down. He kissed them softly as he made eye contact with Steve.

When he stepped back, he held up the tiny urn pendant. “This though,” Bucky said quietly. “This has to go.”

Steve swallowed tightly and nodded. It was still hard for him to let go of it, but he knew that Bucky was right. He’d spent too long already in mourning, and when Bucky was already there with him no less. He wanted nothing to come between them – nothing that would ever take a higher precedent than Bucky himself.

“It’s going to be alright, I promise Stevie.” Bucky kissed his cheek before he crossed over to the kitchen garbage. He dropped the small memorial piece into it and turned back to Steve. “There. I’ll trust you _not_ to fish it out again.”

Steve nodded resolutely. It wasn't going to be easy, as sleeping with the urn in hand and against his breast was a habit, if not an addiction. But, with Bucky there with him, he knew that he could move on from it.

“Good,” Buck nodded once in agreement. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I’m going back ta bed.”

Steve snapped out of it and lunged forward. He grabbed Bucky’s right hand gently and laced their fingers together. With a gentle squeeze and a smile, he leaned his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky smiled back down at his husband as he returned the hand squeeze. “Alright, pal. Lets go back ta sleep.”

This time, when Steve curled up in Bucky’s arms with his head tucked under the brunet’s jaw, he faced inward. He nuzzled Bucky’s chest tiredly, as he snuggled as close as he could – his arms wrapped around his husband’s waist as he rubbed his cheek against Bucky’s pectoral while he got comfortable. Above him, Bucky smiled peacefully with his eyes closed, as he held the other man close.

Everything was going to be just fine.


End file.
